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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25623184">bless these nomads</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout'>bloodscout</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alice "Daisy" Tonner With Crutches, Camping, Canon Disabled Character, F/F, Fishing, Holidays, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Muslim Basira Hussain, Muslim Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Season/Series 04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:16:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25623184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Basira packs for Daisy too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>TMA Girls Week, WLW Writing TMA Women</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>bless these nomads</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from Nomads by John Craigie, which was my anthem for the first half of this fix<br/>Biggest thanks to the Lesbian Archives gang for being my hype team, headcanon crowdsource, and sounding board. Without y’all this fic wouldn’t have happened at all, let alone been this big.<br/>I’ve fucked with timelines! Technically Basira and Jon were on that boat over Ramadan/Eid, but I’m pretending that happened just before. Instead, consider that I missed iftar markets this year and this is how I’m coping.<br/>I am Australian and while I did a lot of camping in my pre-disability youth, I know next to nothing about England and the English countryside</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“You’re getting better.” Basira comments, voice carefully neutral. She very deliberately does not say <em>stronger</em>.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Her hands full with paper plates of food, she knocks the door closed with her leg. They have an appropriated conference table and two chairs in here, in the room that is now <em>their</em> room, and Basira lays out the plastic plates in an approximation of a proper meal spread.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy’s head lolls to the side, her legs still bicycling in the air above her. “Yeah, I… Yeah, think so.” She kicks a foot emphatically. “Doesn’t hurt so much now.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Wordlessly, Basira takes her arm and helps her stand, holding her through the momentary wobble as Daisy finds her balance again. They sit kitty corner to each other, thighs pressing together around the table leg.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“How was…?” Daisy asks, gesturing to the food.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira rolls the words in her mouth for a moment. She knew that if she said it was anything more than bearable, Daisy would see through the lie immediately. Breaking fast with Jon was never good, never something she looked forward to. It was just what the circumstances called for.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Fine. He was being… Jon.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy hums in agreement, and starts in on the food. Basira is full to the point that it’s difficult to look at food, but if she would rather eat with Jon than be alone, she can at least sit with Daisy despite her own discomfort.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“How long left?” Daisy asks through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy had never got the hang of lunar calendars, and time was even harder to keep track of lately. Days felt like they stretched for years. She was the only person in the Archives who wore a watch anymore.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Just a week.” Basira tells her. “On the fourth.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy moves onto the dips. “Be nice to sleep in.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira laughs at that, a little dry. Daisy wouldn’t sleep past eight if you paid her. When Daisy leans over to snag a book, Basira catches her hand. Daisy’s hands feel the same as they always did; nimble, calloused, a little dry.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“We should take a holiday.” Basira says before she’s really aware what she’s suggesting.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Confusion is plain on Daisy’s face. “Can we even do that?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Jon and I just went to Russia.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy’s hand shifts, palm up. “Not a holiday.” She punctuates her point with a tap of her fingers. They tickle where they rest on the soft skin of Basira’s wrist.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Just a weekend. You need to get out of here.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">When Daisy’s face cracks into a smile, Basira knows she’s won.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“As long as there’s no boats.” Daisy concedes, and leans in to kiss her.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The others barely try to hide their looks of surprise when Basira tells them she and Daisy are leaving for the next few days. Jon forgets there’s a world beyond the Tesco and the laundromat, and Melanie had seen first hand what happened when people tried to take holidays from the Archives. Nevertheless, they don’t argue, and Basira finds a container of leftover shufta in her backpack when she checks they have everything they need.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira’s car sits in the staff carpark, leaves turning to mulch under the windscreen wipers. It’s the kind of gray that doesn’t show dirt immediately, but the dusty streaks and bird shit is hard to miss after so long without use. Daisy usually prefers to drive, but Basira takes the driver’s seat this time. The decision is unspoken, like so many of their conversations lately. They both know Daisy would much rather watch Basira than the road.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy’s crutches clatter against the bags when she throws them into the back of the car. She hasn’t been using them as much lately, but Basira had shoved them into her hands enough times that it was easier to bring them than to conveniently forget. The first thing she does when she gets into the passenger seat is to dive for the aux cord and jam it into her phone, hungry for the exasperated roll of Basira’s eyes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” Basira says simply. Then, unprompted, she relents. “Not until half way, at least.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy doesn’t put her phone down, scrolling instead to her playlists. The speakers blare to life with a particularly violent banjo. By the time the singer’s scratchy vocals join in, Daisy is grinning, her tongue caught between her teeth. Basira allows herself a quick appraisal of pale pink bracketed by sharp incisors.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What is this crap?” Basira asks, thunking the speakers with the back of her hand.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She doesn’t put her hand back on the wheel, instead resting it on Daisy’s thigh. Her skin is warm through the denim.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Melanie made it,” Daisy says, which is more than enough explanation. “It’s my reform playlist, apparently.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira hums, taking her eyes off the road long enough to see the playlist title that Daisy is showing her; it reads “ACAB Crash Course”. It’s humorous enough, but it’s the mirth Daisy holds in the corners of her eyes that really makes Basira laugh.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I hope I don’t get graded. Can’t understand even half the stuff they’re saying.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira spins her lip ring with her tongue until the ball hits her skin. “Melanie wouldn’t grade you. Jon, on the other hand.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She wants to wring the sound of Daisy’s laughter from the air, have it drip directly into her mouth and swallow it all. There’s a plucky ray of sunlight reaching through the windshield, lending a cosy heat to their drive. It is hard to trust the warmth in the air and the promise of a weekend with minimal rain. A comforting kind of distrust, though. Everybody worries about the weather, fearing nothing more than a ruined picnic or a damp jacket. She wants to have concerns like that, at least for the next few days.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">After Basira has turned the volume down for the third time and Daisy has failed in hiding her sixth wince at a particularly discordant note, Daisy admits defeat.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Fuck this for a lark.” she declares. “I’m putting on some real music.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira bites back a laugh when the raspy vocals are replaced with Mitski’s lilting drawl. There are so many things about Daisy that she could never have expected, and her tastes in audio mediums are definitely one of the most surprising. Evidently, she is ineffective in suppressing her mirth, and Basira is rewarded with a gentle punch to her bicep.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It doesn’t take long for Daisy to break open the driving snacks. The drive was around two hours all up, but Daisy’s meals are small and frequent these days, and she had made sure they were well stocked with driving snacks. Jon had sworn up a storm when Basira had said they weren’t planning any breaks, but Daisy seems to be content with keeping the window down. Occasionally she will pop a Minstrel directly into Basira’s mouth, usually as Basira is mid sentence. Otherwise, Basira does not see the sweets throughout their trip.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">True to her word, Basira doesn’t argue when Daisy puts on the Archers when they pass through Dorking. She receives Daisy’s running commentary, catching her up with whatever convoluted storylines she had missed since the last time Daisy had subjected her to the tales of the residents of Borsetshire. She’s surrounded by people who talk, now. She doesn’t encourage it, but Jon will sometimes catch her in the radius of one of his rants, and it’s so hard to ignore him when he’s on a roll. With Melanie it’s a bit more willing, staying through her wild gesticulations because of something approaching friendship as opposed to by supernatural obligation. She isn’t beyond getting bored, of course. Oftentimes, she would much rather bury herself in research than hear about the political history of architecture or audio engineering or whatever has caught her coworkers-turned-fellow inmates attention.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She’d listen to Daisy read the phonebook, though. Her voice is mesmerising in an entirely natural way.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They reach the campground as the Grundys are having a particularly emotional argument, and Basira doesn’t miss the way Daisy is fidgeting with the sleeves of her jacket. She elects to let Daisy finish the episode and head to the office to pay their fares and find their spot. The caretaker asks if “you two girls know how to put a tent up by yourselves?”, but doesn’t question when Basira pays in cash, so swings and roundabouts, she supposes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">While Daisy is technically employed at the Magnus Institute, she does not actually receive a salary, and Basira has always been frugal to a fault, so they elected to bring their own tent rather than stay in one of the weekend cabins.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Pick somewhere near a tree but not quite under it.” Daisy suggests, evidently not trusting the promise of a rain-free weekend either. Basira isn’t the best at accepting advice, she will admit, but for one reason or another, Daisy probably knows much more about camping than she ever will. Then, “Fuck, shit. I didn’t pack the tent.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira drums on the wheel as she scopes out a suitable place to pitch up. “I did.” She steadies her hands in preparation for the appreciative kiss Daisy drops on her cheek.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Over there.” Daisy points, and Basira drives over to the spot she is indicating.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">After several hours in a car, Daisy is a bit shaky on her feet, one hand brushing the bonnet as she walks to catch herself on if she loses balance. Basira drags the tent out of the boot and begins unpacking it before Daisy can feel like she needs to help.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Need a hand?” Daisy asks anyway.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Instructions clamped between her teeth, Basira shakes her head.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Even though she is now leaning a hip on the car, Daisy protests. “C’mon, at least let me do something. I won’t let you carry my deadweight all weekend long.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira would. They both know she would, but that isn’t what Daisy wants. This weekend they are play acting at normalcy, and that means Basira needs to let go. She cannot be in control, and she needs to be okay with that.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She pulls the paper from her mouth. “Can you hammer in those pegs?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira has always had impeccable spacial reasoning skills, and she barely has to look at the instructions during assembly. They set up a camp table and stools, both of which Daisy congratulates Basira on her foresight in bringing along. The finished result is not unlike their room back at the institute, though the sunlight and superior view prevents the similarities from being too depressing. The way the sun hits the water turns it into a mirror, the shiny surface only broken by ripples of fish beneath the surface.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Could’ve fished, if we had a line.” Daisy pouts. There is a slight tremor to her body that Basira recognises as exhaustion.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira laughs at that, shocking them both. You can take the hunter from the Hunt, and so on. There is an uncomfortable twist in her stomach at the though, not unlike the sensation of being tickled. It is concern knotted with familiarity and a new, a slow-moving grief. She wishes she had had that thought when she was in the camping store that week, testing grips and reels and rods.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Did you bring anything with you?” Basira teases, as she retrieves her purchases from the car.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I brought things!” Daisy protests. “I have a rucksack!”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira nods. “Full of Haribo, I bet.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy snorts. “It’s full of vital supplies. Check yourself.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira does. Inside the dark green canvas is, as expected, several bags of sweets and other snacks, as well as two large hunting knives, thankfully both sheathed. “Daisy, this just just junk food and knives.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“All I used to need.” Daisy grumbles. No doubt she intends it to be light, joking, but it comes across sounding hollow. And no wonder. She’s been cored like an apple, the centre of her torn out and not yet refilled.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira underarms the rod to Daisy, at once a peace offering and a reward. “I always pack for both of us.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy catches it before it hits the ground, reflexes still sharp as ever. She smiles indulgently at Basira, whispering “Absolute goddess,” as thanks.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira watches the way the expression makes her cheeks rise, instead of checking her incisors. She doesn’t check if they’ve grown a little sharper, now. She reads while Daisy ties hooks and lures to translucent line. Jon had given her a doorstopper book about Chartism at Eid, and given that Daisy had forbidden any books from the Institute Library on their trip, she was not exactly spoilt for choice. They shuffle towards the riverside when Daisy is ready to cast, and Basira stretches out on the sun warmed grass. She can just feel the scratch of the grass through her clothes, and it’s almost odd how long it’s been since she’s just laid outside. She used to take lunch in a park near the precinct, but now she rarely spends time above ground, let alone amongst fresh air and grass.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The only indiction that there is a bite on the line is Daisy’s quiet gasp and the way her muscles tense where she is pressed against Basira. Her arms are strong enough, but there’s something Daisy told her about how you need to engage your core that might prove difficult now. Basira readies herself to catch Daisy if needed, but the reel turns, and soon enough a decent sized pike emerges from the water.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Good enough for you?” Daisy asks, cutting the fish from the line. She looks proud, a little brighter around the eyes. Basira responds with a kiss to her cheek.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Should I…?” Daisy mimes running the knife down the belly of the fish, indecision clouding her features. Melanie is the same, a matching brief moment of hesitation whoever she touches something she once recognised only as a weapon.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Well, I’m certainly not going to.” Basira concludes. She had no problem preparing meat, so long as there were adequate hand washing supplies nearby. Not to mention that Jon had her researching Flesh statements all through Ramadan — a welcome distraction at the time, but her stomach was yet to fully recover.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Your loss.” Daisy teases.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The sun is just starting to set when Daisy has gutted and scaled the fish, and the coolness of evening settles over them like a palm on a fevered forehead. Daisy lights a small campfire to cook over, and while Basira is pretty sure they don’t have a permit for it, she is loathe to deny herself the sight of the woman she loves tending to a flame.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">As Daisy rubs lemon juice and herbs into the fish, Basira pulls lukewarm beer from the car. She has a bottle opener on her keys, but doesn’t offer it immediately. Daisy used to open bottles with her teeth, when they were on the force together, and Basira wants to see if she’s retained the skill.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It is with a flare of fascination and affection in her chest that she learns Daisy has.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Better than Pot Noodle and takeout, I hope.” Daisy says as she begins to covers the foil-wrapped fish with coals. They had spent so long cooking with toaster ovens and oily camping stoves that cooking like this seemed almost luxurious.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira catches Daisy’s chin in her hand, thumb resting over a small scar on her jaw. There aren’t many on her face, but Basira knows them all by touch. She could map them out in her sleep. Daisy lets herself be drawn into a kiss, lets Basira take the lead on when their lips touch, when Daisy opens her mouth for Basira’s tongue, when they break apart for breath. Daisy tastes like beer, and like metal, and like the citrus she’s been sucking off her fingers. They kiss differently out here. It’s the kind of kiss Basira hasn’t had for years, and that Daisy hasn’t had for even longer. It is unhurried. They have not stolen this moment from more pressing concerns. This is freely given.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy rests her forehead on Basira’s own, content to just breathe the same air. “Love you.” Daisy tells her, like a admission.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Love you.” Basira replies. If Daisy’s words were an admission, Basira’s are a confession. Despite it all, against my better judgement, I love you.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">After a while, they sway apart, and Daisy returns to checking on their dinner. Words like those are too heavy for moments like these. It takes them some time before either of them remembers how to speak.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I wonder sometimes,” Daisy murmurs, idly poking at the coals with a stick. “How much of it was the Hunt.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira tucks her toes under Daisy’s leg. Daisy likes to keep her warm. “And how much was you?” Basira inquires. Usually she can follow Daisy’s train of thought with ease, but when she talks about the Hunt it feels like she’s learning a new language that Daisy is already fluent in.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No,” Daisy takes a slow sip, more to give her time to formulate a thought than for the alcohol itself. Her fingers always look good around the neck of a bottle. They’re so much stronger than the rest of her, now. “I think it was always me. Is still me.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira holds her tongue between her teeth to stop from interrupting. She can’t believe that, but Daisy doesn’t want to argue that particular point. Basira locks it away.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“But how much of it was just the job? How different was I to any other officer?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira isn’t sure if she’s supposed to answer that. Even before she was sectioned, before she knew what kind of stuff Daisy saw — and did — on a daily basis, Basira would never have described her as an ordinary cop.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Abandoning the fire for a moment, Daisy shifts to lie between Basira’s legs. She sleeps like this sometimes, head pillowed on Basira’s thigh, fingers curled into the fabric of her trousers.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“We do things we aren’t proud of now.” Basira says. It’s true, undoubtedly, but it is also deliberately not an answer.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The fire pops. An owl screeches in the distance, possibly capturing its first meal of the day.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Would you leave the Institute? If you could?” Daisy’s voice is quiet, but there is not waver in it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira’s pause is not because she is deliberating her answer. She is deciding whether to tell Daisy the truth. She hates wasted time, and if she were to leave, these last years would be useless. But she has put time into Daisy, too, and she likes those results much more.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She rests a hand on the nape of Daisy’s neck. “No.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Mm. Didn’t think so.” Her tone is free of judgement, which somehow hurts more than if it had been plain with disappointment. “I don’t know if I would. I want to say yes, but.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She catches Basira’s other hand, looping fingers around her wrist. Not holding her down, not trapping her. Just holding. It is as much an admission of love as anything Daisy has said aloud. Basira bites her lip around returning the words.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I don’t blame you for what you did.” Basira tells her. She isn’t sure she could.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy smiles, and Basira can feel it against her leg. “I know you don’t. But I do.” She presses a gentle kiss to the fabric. “I think I need to.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The fish is good, steaming and moist, and Daisy is obviously pleased by the way the meat flakes off the bone. She compliments Basira on her choice of herbs, wonders aloud if her mother expected that she would be such an accomplished housewife. This earns her a harsh jab to her side, which inevitably devolves into tickling, Daisy shrieking in joy as Basira tackles her to the ground.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Tired yet?” Daisy asks, her arms pinned to the ground by Basira’s grip.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Not yet.” Basira decides, and steals a kiss before rolling to the side.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy hums. “What other surprises do you have in the car, then?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira rolls her eyes, as if she hadn’t packed everything she thought Daisy might want. She returns with the container of shufta and a bright yellow ukulele.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I didn’t know you knew I was learning.” Daisy comments as she takes the instrument from Basira’s hands. Jon had been teaching her when the nightmares woke them up, when they both drifted to Jon’s office and wanted to hear the other’s voice.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I know everything that goes on in that building.” Basira says, only partway joking. She certainly kept her eye on Jon when he was around Daisy. There was begrudging gratitude that he had been the one to save her, and then there was careless ignorance of a proven danger.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Daisy plucks away at the strings, and Basira rests her head on her thigh, looking up at the sky. It’s brighter out here, like someone had thrown a bucket of glitter into the sky. She didn’t get to see this many stars back in London.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You stargaze?” Daisy asks after a while, when she’s exhausted the repertoire of chords she knows by heart.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“A little.” Basira admits. She points up at two bright points in the sky, and Daisy lowers herself to the ground so she can follow Basira’s line of sight. “Martin said those two were the eyes of the creator god. Baayami or something.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It had been when Basira had started in the Archives, and she had been reading about the Church of The Divine Host. A text had mentioned Venus, and Martin had shared a story his mother had told him when he was a child. It was one of those facts, those tidbits of intel, that Basira memorised for later use.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Wonder if Elias can see us through them.” Daisy jokes, then shivers. She puts her middle finger up, just in case.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">When Daisy starts drifting off, Basira packs up their detritus and bundles them both into the tent. They zip their sleeping bags together, and Daisy tucks her body into Basira’s side. In the morning, they’ll find a shady spot to skinny dip in lieu of braving the communal showers, and Basira will hold Daisy up when she’s too short to touch the riverbed. They’ll walk the water’s edge and cake the feet of Daisy’s crutches in mud. Daisy will catch them another fish, and Basira will read aloud while it cooks. Too soon, they will find themselves packing up and driving back to London.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Basira’s mind will still be whirring with plans and possibilities, and Daisy will still be weak and tired. It won’t have fixed anything. It was never going to fix anything; but it will have happened, and that is important enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I sprinkled in a teeny tiny bit of Aboriginal Martin because Mum said it’s my turn to project my race onto a TMA character!!!!!<br/>The constellation Basira mentions is Venus &amp; Mars, which I don’t think are in England in mid June, but again, I am not shooting for exact accuracy. It’s a Gamilaroi Dreamtime story and I pay respects to elders past &amp; present for keeping those stories alive for generations to come.<br/>pls come yell at me about the magnus archives on tumblr at <a href="sansculotted.tumblr.com">sansculotted</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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